My boy

Henry is getting very interested in reading and books lately, after many months of disinterest. For about 6 months now his bedtime routine has consisted of us saying "it's bedtime!" and him hopping into bed. No rigamarole, no singing, no stories. But I started to worry about the lack of stories, so we started reading downstairs as a family before we went up to bed. Then, about a week ago, he asked me to start reading Harry Potter again. I'd started reading to him late last summer, but it didn't take. This time, though: gangbusters. Now we read a chapter in his bed together before he falls asleep every night, and he regularly pesters me to read to him at other times, too. I can tell he's enthralled by it; when Harry broke a school rule for the first time, he could hardly stand the suspense of hearing what happened and if Harry would get suspended. When Harry and Ron were illicitly walking the hallways of the school late at night, he was so rattled he asked me to stop reading; then begged me to keep going to see how it turned out. I absolutely LOVE sharing this with him.

His own reading is getting better and better, too. He can read Hop On Pop fluently, and likes to show this trick off to visitors, but is reluctant to challenge himself to read a different book-- one he hasn't all but memorized! The other day he said how it was funny that the word "bed" kind of LOOKS like a bed.

But his triumph of the day is as an engineer. A couple of weeks ago I disassembled a pop-up toddler toy that Agatha had stuffed full of Lego guys (pictured above, in two halves, right before he screwed it back together). Switches and parts and plastic pieces popped out all over the place. Since then, the children have enjoyed taking all the pieces out and strewing them all over the place. But today, after lunch, Henry set to work. "Mom, I did it!" he said suddenly-- and he had. He put the whole thing back together and only one little animal doesn't pop up quite as vigorously as he used to. Otherwise, it's completely functional.

Don't Crutch My Bun

Henry's new helmet. Shockingly, he has been agreeable and cooperative in wearing it.

This officer is quick to issue warnings for infractions of the rules.

Partners in crime.

This (the post title above) was the phrase of the day, uttered by Agatha-- "crutch" is now a verb in our house, and she was concerned Michael would tromp on her bunny.

I also heard her say, "I certainly would!" when asked if she wanted something, and when I thanked Henry for something he did, he replied, "It was my pleasure!" So it was a good day for good language in our house. Henry is really working on his niceness, due to the success of the Niceness Chart. He played so well with Agatha today, and it is so cute to watch them as partners in crime. They are also quick to upbraid each other for infractions. When I hear them talk to one another, I realize that they understand the rules and policies perfectly well-- they're able to cite chapter and verse when the other one is at fault.

"Aggie, you may NOT work from the tub of beads. Put them on a tray. No, that's too many!"

"Henry, put your helmet on!"

"Aggie, you can't climb on the sofa. Bottoms or knees! That's NOT appropriate."

"Henry, it's time to go home. Close the door!"

It was a really nice, restorative weekend. I summoned the energy to thoroughly clean and de-clutter the house, and the result is so rewarding. We had an evening out with adults, we re-stocked the larder, I went to yoga and today we made a nice homemade dinner (this week, the cooking has been hit-or-miss, and the coming week promises more of the same), including a lemon meringue pie inspired by "Amelia Bedelia." So I feel again like home and family and self are more or less in order. That's good, because this week and the next will be BUSY!

CAA

Thanks to my mom's generously keeping our children, Michael and I went to a conference in New York for the better part of three days last week. It's the big annual meeting of professors of art and art history, and it's where job candidates interview and there are dozens of panels of lectures where the latest research is presented. Also lots of parties, receptions, awards ceremonies, book fairs, and the like. I gave a paper on Friday afternoon-- my first at this venue in 10 years. I apply almost every year, but it's competitive, and I haven't had an exciting new research project to present in some time, since I've spent the latest 5 years in Baby Hiatus (or at least Baby-Induced Slowdown). I've been to the conference a few times since my last paper: in 2003 to interview for my current job; in 2009 to interview candidates to replace me while on sabbatical. It's always dizzying there, especially every third year when it's held in New York. It's always at the same hotel and conference center in New York, the Hilton in midtown, and going there in 2011 I had head-spinning memories of being there as an anxious graduate student in the mid-1990s, an eager and scared job candidate in 1997, a cynical recently-tenured professor looking for a new job in 2003. And walking through the halls, I constantly ran into people from those past phases.

There's nothing like seeing pretty much everyone in the country who does your same job to make you realize your place in the pecking order. I remember talking to a fellow grad student in the hallway years ago, and watching him constantly looking over my shoulder for someone more interesting or important to talk to. This time, I had highs and lows, and came out realizing that I am somewhere solidly in the middle-- mid-status, and mid-career. I went to the book fair and saw my book nowhere on display; worse, I looked in the index of a new book in my field and found my published work nowhere listed. Dejected, I went to a panel and before the lecture started, three people had told me how often they assign chapters from my book to their students and how they wish I could get royalties from PDFs. Some of my grad student colleagues are in high-status jobs now and getting prestigious grants, but I also talked to one who, despite her excellent work, had been denied tenure and was now commuting four hours to teach adjunct at a small college in the midwest.

My lecture went really well and it was standing room only in the hall; maybe 150 people. It's humbling to see how, despite years of hard work, I'm still just in the middle of the pack. But I'm also so grateful to be here, taking part, doing the work, researching and thinking and talking about it to others. Baby Hiatus is over, and I'm back: I'm in the game, and glad for it.

Broken Ankle

Oh yes! Michael broke the end of his fibula (or is it his tibia? the smaller of the two). He twisted his ankle on the ice while running on Friday late afternoon, and managed to walk all the way home. Not only that, but the next morning, he got on a bus and spent the day in New York City taking our students around the MoMA. He walked to the subway, walked to lunch, and walked to the Met to catch the bus home.

Lessons learned are the following: 1., Michael is not a wimp. I tend to be a bit heartless and impatient when he's sick, and I really need to stop that! 2., It says something about the pace and demand of our daily lives that on Saturday morning, when his ankle was still really hurting and I was calling friends and neighbors trying to locate crutches for him, we decided that it was easier for him to *go to New York with a broken ankle* than to stay home and take care of the kids while I went instead. 3., We're not as young as we used to be.

The good news is that it was a clean break and there was no displacement, so no pins or plates or surgery are called for. He's in a space-age inflatable cast that he can remove for sleeping or bathing, and can hobble around on. He feels like it's getting better already, but the doctor says to expect four weeks in the cast, and then we'll see. Poor Michael! (and, selfishly, poor me, who now must fetch and carry and run up and down stairs for another Clapper for a little while...)

Sardines

Trying to eat low on the food chain and all that, I've bought a few cans of sardines over the last few months. They're sustainable, healthy, full of omega-3s-- what's not to like? Well... they're sardines. Yesterday, another snow day, I made a pot of lentil soup for lunch and Michael noticed the sardines in the cupboard. He brandished them: today would be the day for sardines!

I proclaimed to the children that we would eat a can of tiny fish for supper. They were immediately intrigued.

"Let's eat them now! I can't WAIT until supper."

"Will they be green? or blue fish?"

"I think they will be light- no, dark turquoise."

"Maybe it will be one BIG fish in there!"

"Are they alive?"

At last the moment arrived. As I peeled back the lid on the can, the children hunched forward expectantly, like cats.

Five or six recognizably fishy bodies lay inside, intact except for their heads and fins. Everyone was silent for a moment.

"I want the biggest one."

"No I want the biggest one!"

"They have tiny bones inside."

"Do we eat them, like kiwi seeds?"

"My fish doesn't have seeds."

Readers, they devoured them. They picked up the little, cold, oily, fishy bodies with their fingers and chowed them right down. And when the sardines were gone, they begged to have the "sauce" (fishy olive oil) drizzled over their rice, which they also demolished.

It was a little like watching those old anthropologist films of eskimo babies eating whale blubber. I guess they knew what they needed, though, because it was another snow day today. With bonus ice storm! Henry just came in soaking wet from playing out in his snow fort for an hour and a half. So all those lipids are doing their job.